


The Survivor

by obstinate_as_an_allegory



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode: s01e04 The Good Soldier, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-24 20:37:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2595641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinate_as_an_allegory/pseuds/obstinate_as_an_allegory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The musketeers are assigned to protect the Duke and Duchess of Savoy on their journey home. Athos thinks this is a bad idea, and he turns out to be absolutely right. </p><p>AU following The Good Soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Gontard slipped back into the room. The Duke kissed his sleeping wife gently on the forehead and went to meet him.

‘Was it him?’ he said in an undertone.

‘No.’

He cursed. ‘He wanted to kill me, that musketeer.’

‘Maybe so, my lord, but he’s not the man we’re looking for.’

The Duke scowled, studying Gontard’s face. There was something else. ‘Well?’ he said impatiently.

‘The man who survived the massacre is still in the regiment. I have his name here.’ He reached inside his jacket for the scrap of paper and passed it over.

The Duke took it and read it expressionlessly. ‘Alright. You’ve done well, Gontard. Prepare everything to leave tomorrow. I’ll handle this.’

-/-

‘The Duke of Savoy has asked for a musketeer escort to accompany his party on their journey home,’ Treville explained. The four men in front of his desk exchanged glances. D’Artagnan looked surprised. Aramis’ eyes were wary but if he was startled, he didn’t show it. Porthos didn’t bother to hide his distaste at the mention of the Duke. Athos, who could clearly see exactly where this was going, already looked furious.

‘You don’t have to go all the way to Savoy; he has sent ahead for an escort of his own soldiers to meet you halfway, at Montluçon. It’ll be three days’ ride at most.’

‘Did he not bring an escort with him?’ Athos asked. The veneer of politeness on his tone was unusually thin.

‘Only a couple of men. You’ll bear in mind that as far as he is concerned, the assassin who tried to kill him is still at large.’ Treville caught Aramis’ eye as he spoke, and he offered the tiniest of nods in response. Both of them were still sporting matching black eyes. 

It became apparent that Athos was not going to respond, so after a brief silence, d’Artagnan asked ‘when do we leave?’

‘Tomorrow, at first light. Report to the palace prepared to ride immediately.’

He nodded earnestly, and Treville dismissed the four of them with a gesture. Porthos shepherded d’Artagnan out, shooting a glance behind him at Athos and Aramis. Aramis hesitated a moment and then followed, grim-faced. Treville made a point of turning back to his papers, but was not surprised when he looked up to find Athos still standing in the office.

He sighed and sat back, waiting.

‘Are you going to tell me,’ Athos began levelly, ‘that there was no one else you could send?’

He grimaced. ‘Is there some pressing business that prevents you leaving Paris tomorrow, Athos?’

Athos’ lips twitched in anger. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean. Marsac is scarcely cold in his grave and you’re going to make Aramis spend three more days in the company of the Duke of Savoy?’

‘Aramis will do his duty-‘

‘Damn his duty! There are thirty other musketeers capable of babysitting the blasted man...’

‘You were recommended, it seems,’ Treville interrupted. ‘He asked for you in particular.’

‘For me?’ Athos said sharply.

‘All of you.’

‘What does he know of any of us?’

‘Apparently your reputation precedes you. Try to be flattered.’

Athos glared at him.

‘He could see that I wanted to kill him when we fought the other day. You don’t think it’s suspicious he should ask for me?’

Treville grimaced. ‘Remember that the Duke has just signed a treaty of allegiance with France. It’ll be three days’ ride, hand him over to his own men and come back. Any of you could do a mission like this in your sleep.’

Athos grunted reluctant agreement, but made no move to leave. Treville sighed.

‘If Aramis wants to stay out of this one, I will understand. I can tell the Duke he is unwell, and send a replacement.’

Athos met his eyes wearily. ‘Can you imagine Aramis agreeing to that?’

‘Perhaps not,’ Treville conceded. At last, Athos gave a resigned grunt and turned to leave. Treville watched him join the others in the yard with some misgivings. The sooner Savoy was back in his own miserable little principality, the better it would be for everyone.

-/-

The morning was mercifully bright and fair, but none of Athos’ friends looked particularly well-rested.  The Duke’s carriage and the four guardsmen he’d brought with him – armed with swords and pistols but more servants than soldiers to tell by the look of them – were outside the palace, with the first minister Gontard supervising as the last of the luggage was loaded. Athos dutifully went and presented himself to Gontard, who cast a supercilious eye over the musketeers and nodded doubtfully.

Having apparently bid goodbye to the king and queen indoors, the royal family emerged and ensconced themselves in the carriage with barely a glance at anyone, and the little convoy started moving immediately. That suited the musketeers well enough. If they could manage the whole journey with as little congress with the Duke, they’d all be happier. Athos could see Porthos relax marginally as they moved out of the gates. Perhaps the mission would be as easy as Treville promised.

Some hours later, when they’d paused to water the horses and were ready to get moving again, the Duke appeared beside Porthos, riding a dark stallion which had been tethered behind the carriage.

‘Your Grace,’ Athos said in some alarm. ‘Would you not be more comfortable in the carriage?’

‘I prefer the fresh air,’ the Duke replied. ‘Now that we’ve left the worst of Paris’ stench behind us.’

Porthos tensed at the sneer in the aristocrat’s voice. Athos nodded stiffly and fixed his eyes on the road ahead. He caught Aramis’ eye. ‘You and d’Artagnan take the rear. We’ll ride in front,’ he ordered. Presumably the Duke would wish to ride at the front of his little convoy, and Athos was determined to keep him as far away from Aramis as possible. He was surprised again, however, when the man fell into formation beside d’Artagnan, and he had no choice but to turn back to the road and carry on.

-/-

‘I am a military man, myself, of course,’ the Duke said, his shrewd eyes sliding over d’Artagnan to fix on Aramis. ‘I always understood the musketeers to be a ceremonial regiment. Have you seen much real action?’

D’Artagnan blinked and opened his mouth to answer, but Aramis got there first, his voice uncharacteristically quiet and emotionless. ‘I assure you, your Grace, we are all experienced soldiers and will protect your family,’ he said swiftly. D’Artagnan could practically hear his teeth clicking together as he fell silent again.

‘You don’t look old enough to have seen any battles.’

D’Artagnan flushed a bit at that, though he wasn’t sure which of them was being addressed.

‘Were you at the Île de Ré? That was a messy business,’ the Duke continued, looking sharply across d’Artagnan to indicate that he expected an answer.

‘Yes, your Grace,’ said Aramis, and clicked his mouth shut again. He was looking pale, d’Artagnan noticed, and it made the bruise above his eye stand out starkly.

‘Can’t have been much more than a boy,’ the Duke sniffed.

‘I was nineteen.’

‘First battle, then?’

‘No. I was at Montauban, the year before.’

The Duke grunted. ‘Ah yes. Another bloody shambles. I managed to keep Savoy out of that one.’

Aramis nodded gracefully but remained silent. D’Artagnan could practically feel the tension pouring off him, and was caught between a powerful desire to get out from the middle of this conversation and the sense that he ought to say something to take the focus of the interrogation off Aramis.

‘That was before the musketeers were founded, though,’ the Duke continued, speaking as though he knew more on this subject than either Aramis or d’Artagnan. ‘The regiment was established in twenty-five.’

‘Twenty-four,’ corrected d’Artagnan abruptly. The Duke eyed him angrily.

‘As you say. And you joined immediately?’ Again, he seemed to be addressing Aramis over d’Artagnan, and the former nodded, but d’Artagnan forced himself to intercede again, explaining that he was fairly new to the regiment, but that his father had been acquainted with Treville. The Duke looked bored and irritated by the story, but could hardly object given that he had asked the question, and it kept Aramis from having to speak or look at him for a while.

Later, Aramis found the Duke looking thoughtfully at him. ‘Your Grace?’ he said, as politely as he could manage.

‘I had wondered if your face was familiar. Perhaps we met at the Île de Ré.’

Aramis didn’t flinch. ‘Perhaps, my lord,’ he said, and turned away to focus on some detail of his horse’s tack.

The journey continued in much the same fashion. Occasionally the Duke would retreat into the carriage for an hour or two when he got tired of riding, but he’d invariably emerge again to quiz the musketeers on their military careers. He asked no questions that probed into confidential matters, and kept every appearance of making polite conversation, except for his bullish manner and condescension. He gave the same treatment to Athos and Porthos, but seemed to take a particular interest in Aramis – natural enough, perhaps, given that he, of the four of them, had had the longest military career. Aramis’ clipped replies skirted the very edge of courtesy, and he seemed to get paler by the hour.

On the first night they camped south of Orléans on the bank of the Loire river. The musketeers dutifully set watches, only to find that the Duke’s guardsmen were also taking turns to guard the camp through the night.

‘If he doesn’t trust us to protect them, why did he ask for us in the first place?’ grumbled d’Artagnan in the morning.

Athos said nothing, though he had wondered the same thing. The Duke knew perfectly well that the musketeer regiment had a grievance against him. If they weren’t here to protect Savoy and his family, why were they here at all?

Athos sent Aramis and Porthos to the back, in the vain hope that Savoy would leave them alone, but sure enough, the man fell in next to them.

Porthos rumbled noncommittal replies to the first few questions, and the Duke seemed content to hold forth on military tactics without their contribution. He considered himself an expert on such things. Porthos allowed his mind to drift, thinking somewhat wistfully of Serge’s godawful porridge back at the garrison and not having to sit on a horse next to a pompous git. He’d felt Aramis shudder awake several times last night where they’d slept huddled together for warmth, and he knew that the ghosts of Marsac and twenty other dead musketeers were haunting him.

A sharp note in Aramis’ voice jolted him out of his thoughts. The Duke was speaking again, and he tuned back in reluctantly.

‘...found myself fighting against musketeers on one occasion. I can’t say I was particularly impressed, but this was relatively early in the regiment’s history. I am sure it has come a long way since,’ he conceded grudgingly, though Aramis had said nothing and was sitting ramrod straight in the saddle, staring fixedly at the back of the carriage.

‘There were one or two talents among them, I remember, even then. I respect good soldiering, even when it’s opposed to me.’

Porthos studied Aramis’ face carefully, looking for a clue to what would happen next, but he was rigidly expressionless.

‘I still have a scar across my back inflicted by one of your comrades,’ the Duke said, and if possible Aramis blanched even further. Porthos wondered in a panic whether he would lash out, or faint, or throw up.

‘Aramis!’ Aramis turned to him, wild-eyed. ‘Will you have a look at this horse’s back leg? I think she’s limping a bit.’

Aramis nodded dumbly and slid to the ground, and Porthos yelled to Athos to stop while they investigated the horse’s fictional injury. The Duke quickly grew impatient and moved away.

‘He _knows_ ,’ Aramis hissed, stepping close to Porthos.

‘Course he doesn’t. He’s just trying to rile us,’ Porthos mumbled, though he was less sure than he sounded. Athos trotted his horse back to join them.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said in an undertone. ‘Is everything alright?’

Aramis hissed in a long breath, grimaced, and nodded. Porthos glanced up and unexpectedly broke into a grin.

‘What?’ said Aramis irritably.

‘It’s going to rain. That’ll get him back in his damned carriage for a while.’

Aramis followed his look. He had never expected to be so glad to see storm clouds over a long ride.

-/-

The Duke ducked back into the carriage and kissed his wife.

‘We’ll leave it a few hours before we stop,’ he said. ‘It looks like it’s going to rain all afternoon. Try to get some sleep.’

She nodded and smiled at him, trying to settle herself and Louis-Amadeus comfortably on the hard seat. When he was fairly sure she was asleep, he turned to Gontard and spoke in a bare whisper.

‘You were right. That’s our survivor. Tell François to ride ahead and brief the others. They’ll need to attack an hour before we reach Montluçon.’

Gontard nodded, and slipped out onto the front of the carriage to address one of the Savoyard guardsmen. The Duke wrapped an arm around his sleeping wife and settled back into the rocking carriage, listening to the rain beat on the roof.

-/-

By the time they made camp that evening the four musketeers hadn’t a dry item of clothing between them. The rain had finally stopped, but the damp was insidious, particularly as the sun’s warmth receded with the dusk. Athos and Aramis saw to the horses while Porthos and d’Artagnan struggled to coax wet wood into a fire.

‘We should never have agreed to this damned mission,’ Athos grumbled. Aramis looked up in surprise.

‘Is that why you were glaring at Treville before we left?’ he asked. ‘You tried to get us out of it?’

‘I wasn’t glaring at him,’ Athos protested.

Aramis offered him a ghost of his usual smile. Wet and miserable as they all were, the Duke’s retreat into the carriage seemed to have restored his composure considerably. ‘My friend, you glare at everyone,’ he said. ‘Thank you for directing your ire at the captain on my behalf, but I assure you, I can manage.’ He still looked strained and pale in the flickering light, but his voice, now that they were out of the Duke’s hearing, was almost as light and humorous as usual.

‘That Duke,’ said Porthos, approaching, ‘is a weaselly bastard. Glad it’s just one more day or I’d throw him in the river myself.’

Aramis smiled thinly in his moustache. ‘I quite agree. But the ride home will be all the more pleasant for being out of his company.’

Athos was grateful for the reminder. One more day, he thought, they could manage one more without anyone attempting murder, and then with luck they’d never have to look at the bastard again.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day was clear and Athos dreaded further conversations with the Duke, but for some reason he elected to travel in the carriage. Nobody felt disposed to complain.

The mood lifted considerably. Athos could hear Porthos laughing intermittently as he regaled d’Artagnan with stories at the back of the convoy, and even Aramis smiled when he overheard bits of the tale.

‘We might reach Montluçon by mid-afternoon if the roads aren’t too waterlogged,’ Athos said hopefully, squinting at the sun. It couldn’t come soon enough. One of the Savoyard guardsmen had ridden ahead to give the rest of the escort instructions for the rendez-vous that afternoon.

There was a decent tavern in Montluçon town that they could retire to once they’d handed over their charges. Athos was looking forward to a drink and the opportunity to sleep indoors and dry out his clothes properly, but most of all, he was looking forward to spending the evening in the company of his three friends, safe in the knowledge that Savoy was on his merry way and no longer their concern.

It was just past noon when Aramis suddenly tensed and held up a hand. Athos followed his gaze immediately to the flicker of movement between the trees. Aramis had a hand on the butt of his pistol.

Two riders burst out of the undergrowth, heading straight for them. They rode well, but the shot they sent toward the convoy was erratic, striking sparks off a tree six feet from the carriage.

‘Ambush!’ Athos yelled. He shot a glance at Aramis, and the two of them spurred forwards. ‘Porthos, stay with the carriage!’ he called over his shoulder, giving chase as the two horsemen fled back into the woods.

‘What’s going on?’ the Duke demanded, sticking his head out into the sun. Porthos urged him back inside.

‘Bandits,’ he said shortly.

‘Athos and Aramis will get them,’ d’Artagnan added confidently, drawing up on the other side, sword in hand.

‘No doubt,’ grumbled the Duke, moving back into the shadowy interior. They heard him reassure his wife and son in hushed tones.

-/-

The foliage was dense, forcing the fleeing bandits to slow their horses as they moved into the trees. Athos and Aramis were almost upon them when the trees suddenly thinned out again, and the two bandits turned into twenty – all heavily armed. Athos heard Aramis shout in alarm, and then his pistol fired and one of their original quarries dropped like a stone.

Fighting on horseback was impractical in the woods. Athos slashed downwards at the first few men who came at him, but found his movement inhibited. He kicked a man hard in the head and slid off Roger’s back, slapping his rump to urge him out of the skirmish. He fought with less precision than usual on the uneven ground but made up for it in brutality, slashing and stabbing at every man who approached.

It was a messy, chaotic fight. He could hear Aramis nearby fighting equally fiercely. There were already a few bodies on the ground around him. Some of the attackers had fled through the trees when their fellows were killed, but it was clear that they were still badly outnumbered.

‘We must get back to the carriage!’ Athos yelled over the clatter of swords. Aramis shouted agreement, forcing his opponent back towards a broad oak tree.

Athos found himself facing two at once, fencing in broad strokes to keep them both at bay. Beyond them, he could see another man move towards Aramis’ unprotected back. He couldn’t get there, but he managed a strangled warning and saw Aramis move before he was forced to bring his attention back to his own fight. A sloppy parry allowed him to step in and run one man through the throat. The other managed another few minutes – he was clearly a trained soldier but no showy swordsman, and eventually Athos manoeuvred him into a particularly uneven patch of ground, he lost his footing, and Athos dispatched him quickly.

Aramis seemed to be holding his opponent’s sword as well as his own, but the other man had locked an arm around his throat and was clinging on for dear life. The bandit was tugging at Aramis’ fleur-de-lis pauldron with his other hand, and Aramis resorted to Porthos’ tactics, slamming his head backwards and kicking him ferociously on the shin to dislodge him before turning to cut his throat with the stolen sword.

Their eyes met, both of them breathing heavily. ‘There are more of them in the trees,’ Athos gasped, staggering forwards.

‘We need to warn the others,’ Aramis replied, moving to follow him. The horses had fled, so they jogged through the dense foliage until they could see the road. To Athos’ surprise, there was no sign of the bandits.

‘Where are they?’ asked Aramis, behind him. In the distance, he could see Porthos and d’Artagnan still ready to defend the carriage on either side.

Athos scanned the road, expecting to see the remaining bandits heading for the convoy. For a second or two, there was nothing, and then a pair of riders came storming down the road. One was in familiar heraldry, the other in rough leather. Porthos and d’Artagnan tensed, and Porthos raised a pistol.

‘It’s Savoy’s man,’ Aramis said in his ear. ‘The one he sent ahead.’

‘What’s he doing riding with...’ Athos trailed off, trying to identify the other rider. The Duke stepped out and conferred with the guardsman and Gontard. Porthos made some objection that they were too far away to hear. Aramis stepped forward as if to return to the convoy, but Athos stopped him.

‘That was one of the bandits,’ he hissed, pointing at the roughly dressed man conferring with the Duke. ‘What if they were all Savoyards?’

‘What?’

‘Come on.’ Athos took him by the sleeve and moved back into the trees, towards the scene of the battle. Aramis stumbled over a root and grabbed at Athos to stay upright. He’d lost his hat in the fray and his hair was wildly disordered.

‘Why would the Duke’s own men ambush us?’

‘Maybe he wasn’t the target,’ Athos said grimly. He felt like all his misgivings about this mission were slipping into place. Aramis, on the other hand, was blinking at him in incomprehension.

‘You mean they took us for threats to the Duke?’

Athos shook him lightly; he wasn’t usually this slow on the uptake. Unexpectedly, Aramis gasped and his legs buckled, pulling both of them to their knees on the muddy ground. ‘Aramis? Are you wounded?’

Without waiting for an answer he reached for the opening of his friend’s doublet, only to have his hands slapped away. ‘I’m fine. We need to move.’ He stood unsteadily and Athos matched him, watching warily for signs of pain. He turned towards the clearing where the battle had taken place, one hand on his sword hilt.

‘Your back!’ Athos hissed as he turned away, stopping him with one hand on his shoulder. ‘Someone’s sliced open the back of your coat. Hold still.’

Aramis complied with ill grace, huffing impatiently as Athos bent to the slice in the back of his doublet. He tugged at the edges to see whether the damage went any deeper.

‘Don’t make it worse,’ Aramis snapped.

Athos ignored him and continued his inspection. He hissed in anger. ‘You’re bleeding,’ he said. ‘I can’t see how bad it is.’

‘We don’t have time just now,’ said Aramis, his voice gentling in response to Athos’ concern. ‘I am alright for the moment.’ Reluctantly, Athos conceded the point.

They stumbled back to the site of the skirmish. Six bodies were on the ground in total, which left far too many still at large with unknown intentions. Athos knelt by the nearest dead man and searched him systematically. Under the rough leather surcoat, he was wearing a tabard with a set of arms embroidered over the breast. Savoy’s arms.

Aramis tensed behind him. ‘You were right. They are Savoy’s men.’

‘This wasn’t a misunderstanding,’ said Athos grimly. He drew his main gauche and carefully cut the arms from the man’s uniform. ‘I saw that man staring at your uniform before you killed him. They knew we were musketeers.’

‘If the Duke arranged this ambush...’ Aramis began softly.

‘He’s in breach of the treaty he has just signed, for a start,’ Athos pointed out.

‘Unless it looks enough like a bandit attack, and nobody gets back to report to Treville and Richelieu,’ Aramis said, his face tensing in alarm. ‘Porthos and d’Artagnan...’

Athos hauled himself to his feet. ‘We must warn them. That was a large army if it was only intended for you and I.’

Despite himself, Aramis grinned at that. ‘Try to be flattered, Athos,’ he said.

-/-

‘With all due respect, your Grace, we’ve got to wait for Athos and Aramis to return before we go on,’ Porthos said, trying to channel Athos. Dealing politely with recalcitrant aristocrats was not his strong point.

‘You are not the authority here,’ the Duke snapped. ‘We must continue to the rendez-vous point. If the attackers return, I’ll not have my wife and child put at risk.’

Porthos shifted uncomfortably, glancing at d’Artagnan. He was frowning in the direction their friends had disappeared. He looked pained, but nodded his assent. Orders were orders, and two men should have presented no challenge to Athos and Aramis. It was less than an hour to the rendez-vous point. They could return as soon as they’d handed over the royal party, if their two comrades had not already shown up by then.

D’Artagnan nudged his horse closer to Porthos. ‘Who’s the newcomer?’ he muttered, speaking out of one corner of his mouth.

‘Don’t know. One of the new escort, I s’pose.’

‘Something’s not right here,’ d’Artagnan insisted.

Porthos growled his agreement, glaring at the back of the Duke’s head. He gestured to d’Artagnan and they dawdled, putting more distance between themselves and the front of the carriage where the Duke and his guards were riding.

‘All those questions he’s been asking,’ he murmured. ‘What if he knew Aramis was the man who wounded him at Savoy? He’d want revenge. Maybe want to stop him revealing that it was him who led the attack five years ago. Aramis is the only man who knows for sure it was him, and it’d look bad if it all came out now, just after the peace treaty has been signed.’ He spoke slowly, trying not to race ahead of the evidence.

D’Artagnan had no such reservations. ‘You think the ambush was meant for Aramis?’

‘Maybe. Not to mention Athos humiliated him in a duel the other day.’

D’Artagnan frowned, considering. ‘The treaty’s been signed now, though. It’s one thing for people to find out that he killed the king’s men five years ago when there was no official allegiance and Richelieu had misled him into thinking they were there to assassinate him. It’s a different thing to kill musketeers assigned to protect you by your allies, and on French soil at that.’

He hummed doubtfully. ‘Yeah, but if the bastard thinks he can get away with it, better to act now when he has the chance.’

D’Artagnan’s jaw was clenched tight with anxiety, and Porthos was reminded how new he still was to all this. ‘What can we do?’ he asked.

Porthos shifted uncomfortably, his eyes scanning the trees alongside the road for attackers and missing comrades. ‘We won’t know for sure until we find Athos and Aramis,’ he said at last. ‘Don’t let your guard down.’

-/-

The road swung round the edge of the hill as it climbed up to Montluçon, so although the terrain was uneven, they found themselves ahead of the convoy when they rejoined the road. They kept to the edges of the worn track, doing their best to keep out of sight among the trees.

Athos was sweating by the time they reached the road. The fight had left his arm aching and his shins were bruised from stumbling over roots. Aramis was even more ragged at his side, gripping Athos’ arm for balance.

At last, after the fourth or fifth time he saw Aramis stumble, Athos stopped abruptly.

‘We must reach Porthos and d’Artagnan,’ Aramis objected hoarsely, tugging at his sleeve.

‘Not until I’ve seen to your wound,’ he said firmly.

‘There isn’t time!’ Aramis exclaimed, and Athos hushed him sharply. He scanned the woods again for armed men and gripped Aramis by the collar.

‘If we’re right about their motives, they will not attack the convoy while the royal family are still with them,’ he argued in a whisper. ‘The Duke would not put his wife and son at risk; he will wait until after the rendez-vous and send men to follow Porthos and d’Artagnan when they return to look for us.’

Aramis nodded grudgingly, seeing the logic in this.

‘In the meantime, you are bleeding, and you are walking like a drunkard,’ Athos continued, ignoring the growled objection. ‘I’ll not have you swoon and leave me to deal with this mess alone.’

‘I’ve no intention of _swooning_ ,’ Aramis complained, but he allowed Athos to pull him behind a large tree and leaned against it as his friend attacked the fastenings of his doublet.

Aramis shed his doublet and turned to allow Athos access to his back, leaning one forearm against the tree and burying his face in the crook of his elbow. Athos tugged his shirt tails out of his breeches and lifted the shirt to expose the wound, trying hard not to react at the considerable red stain on the pale linen.

‘How is it?’ Aramis’ muffled voice asked. ‘It doesn’t hurt all that much.’

‘I remember a time that a musket ball in your arm _didn’t hurt all that much_ , so you’ll excuse me if I don’t take your word for it,’ said Athos distractedly. The blood on his shirt was worrying, but the wound itself did not appear to be bleeding all that fast. It was a long cut, but a fairly shallow one, starting from a few inches below Aramis’ armpit and stretching diagonally across his back. ‘I don’t think it’s life-threatening but you’ve bled a fair bit,’ he told him eventually. ‘Give me that sash and I’ll bind up the worst of it.’

Aramis passed him the strip of blue cloth. ‘Quickly,’ he said tersely. ‘I think I hear someone approaching on the road.’

Athos stilled for a moment and he, too, could hear the distant sound of travellers. He quickly wrapped the sash around Aramis’ torso, pulling it tight in order to exert some pressure on the wound, then helped him back into his coat. Silently, they moved back towards the road.

The road was cut deeply into the hillside in that spot, so they had the advantage of a steep bank hiding them from the guardsmen’s eyes as the ducal carriage came into view. Athos felt Aramis tense at the sight of the Duke, riding at the front with one of his guards and Gontard. Porthos and d’Artagnan were at the rear and their tension was palpable even from this distance.

Athos felt Aramis move and turned to him in alarm. He was not moving to attack or reveal their position, however, but instead had drawn his main gauche in order to cut one of the buttons from his doublet.

‘What are you doing?’ he hissed.

‘Warning Porthos,’ was the quiet reply. To Athos’ bemusement he pulled a handkerchief from his doublet and improvised a slingshot. He ducked down to wait for their friends to come within range.

‘What will you bet me that I can’t get Porthos in the earlobe from here?’ he whispered. Athos glared at him.

‘I have vowed never to bet against you Aramis, but I am bound to remind you that if any but Porthos or d’Artagnan sees us we will both most likely be killed.’

Though he was still worryingly pale, Aramis’ smile was the brightest it had been in days. Apparently the combination of intrigue, mischief, and proximity to their comrades had revived his spirits. He planted his feet in a secure crouch, loaded the small brass button into the sling and, with a precision usually reserved for his musket, took aim and released the missile in one quick movement. Immediately, he threw himself back down besides Athos.

‘Did you get him?’ Athos asked unnecessarily, since the broad grin on his friend’s face told him all he needed to know.


	3. Chapter 3

 

D’Artagnan was drawn from his agonised thoughts when Porthos suddenly yelped in surprise and clapped a hand to the side of his head.

‘What ails you, man?’ demanded one of the Savoyard guardsmen.

‘Nothing. Insect bite,’ said Porthos, still cupping his hand indignantly over his ear.

‘Early in the year for them,’ the guard commented.

Porthos scowled at him until he turned away. D’Artagnan raised an eyebrow, almost amused despite the dire situation. Porthos’ hand reached out and automatically he took the small object he passed him. Glancing up, he saw that the other musketeer was suppressing a grin.

He turned over the small hard object in his palm. It was a brass button embossed with a fleur-de-lis.

‘Don’t look,’ Porthos muttered through his teeth. D’Artagnan nodded and pocketed the button, turning his eyes to the road ahead.

-/-

The rendez-vous point was a clearing outside the town gates, and five Savoyard men were waiting there in a smart row, coming to attention as the ducal carriage trundled into view.

Caring little for social niceties at this point, particularly given the evidence that the man was attempting to have himself and his comrades killed, d’Artagnan offered the most cursory salute to the Duke.

‘My lord, we’ll take our leave of you,’ he said, nodding at the Savoyard men. Porthos hadn’t the patience even for that, and was already turning back the way they had come.

‘Keep to a walk until we reach the turn in the road,’ he muttered. ‘Then ride as fast as you can.’

It took an effort not to look over his shoulder as they rode away

-/-

Once they had entered the stable yard, the Duke cornered the sheepish-looking lieutenant and demanded a report. The majority of the men were still waiting on the road to ambush the remaining two musketeers and, it transpired, another division were searching for the two who had, in the lieutenant’s words, ‘got away’ from the initial attack.

‘What do you mean _got away_?’ hissed the Duke. The soldier paled under his scrutiny.

‘They killed six of our men,’ he hedged.

‘And you didn’t kill them?’

‘They fought well. We took their horses. On foot, they will not get far.’

The Duke’s glower deepened. ‘See that they don’t. I hope I don’t need to explain what will happen if any of those musketeers returns to Paris alive.’

-/-

‘How’s your back?’ Athos asked. They were still crouched on the embankment overlooking the road, mostly hidden from the guards still seeking them.

‘It’s fine,’ Aramis said predictably. He rolled his shoulders experimentally and felt only a faint twinge. Athos was giving him a look, and he smiled infuriatingly in response, raising his eyebrows.

‘Wait till I tell Porthos,’ Athos grumbled, trying and failing to keep the fondness and relief out of his voice. ‘I’ll have him carry you home like a damsel in distress.’

Clearly the prospect of being reunited with Porthos was too appealing an idea for this threat to have the slightest effect, because Aramis’ grin only widened.

It fell right off his face seconds later and he tensed in response to some noise in the trees. Aramis’ hearing was uncanny, that or he had an extra sense which was attuned to trouble. ‘Where?’ Athos asked immediately, hand on his sword hilt.

Aramis spun to look into the trees; by now Athos could hear the undergrowth rustling as well. Two men lurched into view, clad in the rough leather that the supposed bandits had worn. Their eyes locked. ‘Here!’ one of the newcomers yelled, before Athos could silence him. The other lunged towards Aramis, who, despite his injury and Athos’ fears, met him swiftly with sword and main gauche. More were coming, though.

A man charged Athos; he sidestepped neatly and let the attacker hurtle over the escarpment and roll down onto the mud road. Aramis killed his own attacker, pulled the pistol from the man’s belt and used it to shoot his fellow on the road below.

In the temporary reprieve, their eyes met and without speaking they headed for the surer ground. If their position was revealed, better to fight on the road than risk a stray root or rabbit hole by fighting in the undergrowth. Athos slid down first and searched the body on the edge of the road for weapons. He found a pistol, but it had already been fired. Rather than waste time reloading it, he held it by the barrel and hurled it straight at the head of the first man over the embankment.

The disguised Savoyards seemed to have split into small groups to hunt the musketeers, which was a blessing, since it meant they arrived only two or three at a time, scrambling awkwardly out of the woods. As they fought, Athos heard thundering hooves approaching on the road and his heart sank. Though they might manage a handful more off-balance foot soldiers, he and Aramis were in no state to defend themselves against a troop of mounted guards.

‘Athos!’ someone yelled, and he looked up from the body he had just dispatched to see d’Artagnan charging towards him, Porthos at his side. He staggered in relief. Porthos cut down the man fencing with Aramis, and Aramis clambered up into the saddle behind him. More enemy soldiers flooded over the embankment; six at a time now as the commotion drew them out. Porthos dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and set off, Aramis clinging tightly to his waist.

Athos seized the reins of d’Artagnan’s horse and made to climb up behind him. As he did so, a particularly reckless Savoyard threw himself straight off the bank and collided with d’Artagnan, knocking him from the saddle.

The young recruit yelped in surprise. Athos, still off-balance, flailed wildly for the reins and reached after d’Artagnan with the other arm. He was wrestling with the mad soldier on the ground; Athos almost reached him when the other man’s wild kick connected with the horse’s ankle. She spooked, and reared, with Athos clutching frantically at her mane, he tugged hard on the reins but the horse was already charging away from the man who had kicked her, leaving d’Artagnan with him, mud-spattered and bruised.

He caught up with Aramis and Porthos two hundred yards down the road, and the horse relaxed marginally on recognising her stable mate.

‘Athos?’

‘Where’s d’Artagnan?’ Porthos said sharply.

‘We have to go back,’ Athos gasped. ‘They’ve got d’Artagnan.’

Aramis tilted his head back and cursed fluently at the sky. ‘We’ve got no loaded pistols, and they’ll be waiting for us,’ he said unhappily.

Athos snarled at him and he held up a hand to quell his objection. ‘Of course we must rescue d’Artagnan,’ he added. ‘But we need to be better prepared.’

Athos subsided. He hated it, but Aramis was right. He was also practically grey in the face and tight-lipped, and Athos wondered how well the hastily tied sash was still keeping pressure on his wound.

 ‘They won’t kill him yet,’ Porthos said grimly. ‘They’ll use him to get to us.’

Aramis huffed in agreement. ‘The treaty. They can’t risk any of us getting back to Paris to report on this.’

Athos clenched his fists and forced himself to calm down. ‘Right. We get somewhere safe to wait out the day. At dusk we go into Montluçon and find out where they took d’Artagnan.’

-/-

D’Artagnan hit the muddy ground awkwardly, rolling over the man who had knocked him from the saddle. He struck out wildly, reaching towards Athos’ furious yell, but was distracted by the Savoyard’s attempts to get his hands around his neck. He elbowed the man in the nose, hard, and he kicked out, spooking the horse. D’Artagnan swore and rolled out of the way as she reared and bolted.

He staggered to his feet, watching Athos disappear around the corner in horror. His head throbbed, and he suppressed a swoop of nausea. He was surrounded. Grimacing, he surrendered his sword.

They’d left him.

Perhaps not deliberately; if Athos’ strangled shout had been any indication he had not gone willingly. Nonetheless, d’Artagnan felt a bitter chill at finding himself alone.

It occurred to him slightly belatedly that unarmed and defenceless as he was, nobody had yet tried to kill him. He glanced around at the Savoyard men in some surprise. Someone yanked his wrists together and tied them securely in front of him, and moments later he was being urged forwards in strangely accented French. Towards Montluçon and the Duke. Away from the musketeers.

-/-

They followed the road to the base of the hill then wheeled round to approach the town along the river. The merchants and nobility all used the main road, and for good reason, since this one was narrow, steep and poorly maintained. It served the musketeers’ purposes well: on market day, the way would be flooded with farmers driving sheep up to the town square. Today, it was deserted apart from the odd peasant, and the locals were too poor and had too many troubles of their own to care about the fortunes of three unfamiliar soldiers.

Guilt gnawed at Athos, replaying over and over again the moment when d’Artagnan had been thrown from the horse even as he himself was settling into the saddle behind him.

The rough hovels were closer together as they moved towards the town, and Athos stopped them before they could get too close, picking out a tumbledown barn as a suitable hiding place until dusk. Porthos was looking dangerously unhappy, and when he caught sight of Aramis he realised why. The marksman was slumped heavily against Porthos’ back, his eyes tightly closed and his breath coming in quick, shaky bursts. Athos dismounted and went over to help.

‘Here, I’ll get him down,’ he said, putting a hand to Aramis’ hip when he swayed alarmingly.

Aramis blinked. ‘I’m alright,’ he said indistinctly, but he accepted Athos’ help as he slid off the horse. Porthos followed and silently moved to take his other side. They lowered him onto an upturned crate.

‘What the hell happened to him?’ Porthos demanded.

‘How much did he tell you?’ asked Athos.

‘Said he was _fine_ ,’ he growled, glaring at the half-conscious man between them.

‘He had a sword cut on his back,’ Athos explained, tugging at the fastenings of Aramis’ coat for the second time in so many hours. ‘It wasn’t that bad, but I don’t know what happened in that last fight.’

Aramis mumbled something, leaning with his shoulder propped against Porthos. ‘Aramis? What is it, are you in pain?’ Athos asked him.

He groaned. ‘S’alright,’ he muttered. ‘I think someone kicked me.’

Athos frowned. ‘Where? Your back?’

He draped the coat over a bench and pushed Aramis’ shirt up to his shoulders. The sash had slipped off the wound and was soaked through in patches; one end of the wound had started bleeding again and bruising was developing across his ribs under the streaks of blood. By the look of it, some blunt force had caused the wound to bleed afresh.

Aramis rested his elbows on his knees and slid both hands into his disordered hair. ‘My – my kit was in the saddlebags; I don’t have it,’ he gasped. He was trembling; gooseflesh erupted on his exposed back.

‘We can’t take him into battle like this,’ Porthos muttered, glancing down at Aramis.

Athos winced. ‘We can’t leave him here,’ he replied, keeping his voice low in the hope that Aramis wouldn’t catch it. Aramis did, though. His head jerked up and he grabbed Athos by the wrist.

‘I – I’ll be alright. Just – Porthos -?’ Porthos stepped into his eyeline and placed a firm hand on the back of his neck.

‘What do you need?’

Aramis blinked to ground himself and shuddered. ‘I need – wine, and clean cloth to pack the wound and bind it. And water.’

Porthos nodded and went to ransack his own and d’Artagnan’s saddlebags. They had two clean shirts left between them, and both were shredded in short order. Athos took the bottle of strong wine which Porthos handed him (it was lucky, he mused, that Porthos had not told them he was carrying wine earlier in the journey) and carefully doused the wound, wincing in sympathy as the muscles in Aramis’ shoulders writhed in response. He reached out blindly with one hand and Porthos seized it immediately, pressing their tangled fingers to his own chest.

‘Breathe with me, Aramis. Breathe,’ he murmured.

The shredded linen was packed into the deeper part of the wound and secured with long strips wrapped securely around his torso to Aramis’ breathless instructions.

‘What if the bandage gets dislodged, like the last one?’ Athos asked, tying off the end as tightly as he could, but knowing that he had done this before and it hadn’t been enough then. Aramis shrugged stiffly, shaking his head.

‘Swap doublets with him,’ said Porthos. They both looked at him in surprise and he nodded impatiently. ‘I’m serious. Your doublet ‘ll be too small for him. It’s tighter; it’ll stop the bandage shifting around as he moves.’

Both of them continued to stare at him as if he’d suggested they use the queen’s petticoats to bind the wound. ‘But... _swap_?’ Aramis said at last. He sounded scandalised.

‘ _Fine,_ ’ said Athos, his hands going to the buttons of his own doublet. Porthos carefully pulled Aramis’ shirt back into place and tucked it into his breeches. Aramis was apparently still stunned into silence, at least until Porthos had started dressing him in Athos’ coat. It was, as predicted, a tight fit on him, but with some brute force Porthos managed to button it up.

‘This is...’ Aramis began. ‘We will never speak of this again.’

Athos smirked, hugging his elbows. It was cold in the barn. He eyed Aramis’ coat doubtfully where it was still slung over the bench. Porthos picked it up and threw it at him. Reluctant, but determined to be less childish than Aramis, he pulled it on. He looked up and caught Aramis looking at him thoughtfully. Porthos, on the other hand, looked exasperated with both of them. He cleared his throat.

‘It’ll be dark in an hour or so. You should eat something before we move out.’

He dug some stale bread out of the saddlebags without much enthusiasm.

‘How are you feeling?’ Porthos was saying, holding out a water skin to his injured friend.

‘Ridiculous,’ Aramis rasped, winking at Athos before taking a long drink from the skin. Porthos growled at him and he sobered immediately. ‘I’ll be alright. I won’t be able to move as freely as usual, but I’ll manage.’

If the stale bread and lukewarm water had done much to improve Aramis’ colour, it was difficult to tell in the dimming light. When they gathered their weapons and prepared to depart, he stood on his own and did not noticeably sway on his feet. Athos knew he would push himself hard to save d’Artagnan.

The road was deserted after sundown, and they left as the last of the dusk was fading. The town itself was not particularly lively after dark either, but the taverns had lights at the windows. Athos took d’Artagnan’s cloak from his saddlebags and slipped into the grimier tavern, scanning the sparse crowd for any sign of the Savoyards. All he found was drunk locals, staring moodily into their flagons or playing cards in a corner. By the standards of Paris taverns, it was dull indeed.

Porthos and Aramis searched the stables at the town’s larger tavern, finding, as expected, the ducal carriage stowed in the yard. Even in the middle of a treasonous plot, the duke was evidently unwilling to leave his luggage undefended, for one of the Savoyard guardsmen who had travelled with them from Paris was dozing on the driver’s seat. Porthos hauled him into the yard and round the back of the stables, and when Athos found them he had the man held fast by his arms while Aramis menaced him with the point of his main gauche.

‘He doesn’t know what we’re talking about,’ Porthos informed Athos casually. Aramis allowed his hand to shake just slightly and a tiny trickle of blood appeared on the man’s throat.

‘That’s unfortunate,’ Athos said, equally casually.

‘Wait, wait!’ gasped the captive.

‘Oh, good, he’s remembered,’ Aramis said, in his quietest and most dangerous tone.

‘I’m to take the duchess home. And the little prince. I don’t know anything about – about anything else.’

‘Not the Duke?’ said Athos.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know! I – really – I swear!’

Aramis hummed doubtfully and allowed the dagger’s point to skate along the man’s jawline, close enough to shave him.

‘Where’s the Duke going?’ Porthos demanded, shaking the captive bodily.

‘He’s – he didn’t tell me – it’s the truth –‘

‘He doesn’t know anything,’ said another voice from the mouth of the alley.

Athos and Aramis spun. ‘And who are you?’ Athos said.

‘Let’s say I’m a pragmatist,’ replied the newcomer, stepping into the light. ‘Armand Dupiègne, at your service.’

‘Are you going to tell us that you’re better informed than this moron?’ said Aramis impatiently.

Athos held up a cautionary hand.

‘I am here to tell you that your friend is being held at a farmhouse on the road to Moulins. He is not seriously harmed, just yet.’

Athos hissed angrily. ‘And who has sent you with this message?’

‘My employer,’ Dupiègne said cryptically.

‘With the understanding that we will present ourselves to rescue him, and none of us will remain to report the Duke’s treachery.’ Athos raised an eyebrow.

‘I know no Duke,’ he replied easily. ‘We’re humble men, Monsieur. We hope that the king will pay a generous ransom for four of his musketeers.’

Athos exchanged glances with his two friends. ‘You’re telling me this is about money?’

‘I apologise that it could not be more dramatic.’ The man was a careless liar, speaking flippantly as if he did not care whether or not he was believed.

‘Next time, try abducting the Duke of Savoy,’ said Porthos. Aramis huffed in amusement.

‘My thanks for the advice,’ Dupiègne said, bowing. ‘Be assured, gentlemen, that your friend will be dead by noon tomorrow if you do not arrive. I’ll leave you to deliberate.’

He turned to go, and the guardsman in Porthos’ grip suddenly shrieked ‘ _Armand!’_ The man hissed in irritation, but did not turn. ‘Armand, please!’

Dupiègne left. ‘Know no Dukes, eh?’ Porthos called after him. He yanked on the young guardsman’s arms and the captive man whimpered pathetically.

Athos took pity on him. ‘He’s an idiot. Tie him up and leave him in the carriage.’

Porthos dragged the unlucky Savoyard away.

‘It will be a trap,’ Aramis said, leaning wearily against the stable wall. Athos couldn’t get used to the sight of him in the wrong doublet.

‘We’re not leaving d’Artagnan,’ Athos replied. Aramis nodded automatically.

‘And the Duke’s sending his wife and son on ahead. Which suggests he’s at last getting his own hands dirty.’

Athos frowned thoughtfully. ‘It also suggests that the Duchess of Savoy is currently sleeping in that inn.’

‘Athos?’

He looked back to meet Aramis’ dark gaze. ‘Who would you say has the most to lose from a breach of the treaty between France and Savoy?’

He thought for a second and then smiled. ‘The Duchess.’

Aramis rifled through the Duke’s luggage until he found writing implements, taking childish pleasure in leaving his belongings in disarray. Athos scrawled a hasty note, signed it and sealed it, pressing another of Aramis’ fleur-de-lis buttons into the cooling wax.


	4. Chapter 4

D’Artagnan tested the ropes binding his arms for the hundredth time, achieving little more than aggravating the welts they were leaving on his wrists. His head ached abominably. He’d spent long hours sitting in what appeared to be a farmhouse cellar, complete with the authentic smells of unwashed bodies and livestock, trying very hard not to think about the fact that nobody had tried to rescue him yet, and what that might mean. The time had allowed all his various bruises to make themselves known: the fall from the horse had left him black and blue, and none of the limited positions he was able to sit in with his hands and feet bound gave any respite to his bruises. He was so singularly miserable that when the door opened it came as a relief, even though he knew it would almost certainly not herald good news.

He was surprised, nonetheless, to find himself face to face with none other than the Duke of Savoy himself.

‘Ah,’ said the aristocrat. ‘The young recruit.’ His expression said that d’Artagnan was a tremendous inconvenience to him. D’Artagnan blinked insolently.

The Duke paced agitatedly up and down the cellar for a moment or two, turning to glance at d’Artagnan a couple of times. ‘You’re loyal to your comrades, boy?’ he asked sharply.

D’Artagnan bristled at being addressed as ‘boy,’ and took further offense at the tenor of the question. ‘More than you are to your treaty,’ he said, staring determinedly at the ceiling.

The Duke gestured angrily and d’Artagnan found himself dragged to his feet and held there by a guard at each elbow. ‘Don’t waste my time, boy. This has nothing to do with the treaty. One of those musketeers has information that could be very embarrassing to me. It was your misfortune that you were sent on this mission. I’ve no quarrel with a young pipsqueak like you.’

‘Except that now, I also have information that could be very embarrassing to you,’ d’Artagnan retorted recklessly, earning himself a vicious cuff round the ear for his trouble.

‘These men left you behind in the mud, you fool! Are you willing to die over this misplaced loyalty?’ the Duke hissed, too close to his face.

‘You’re not going to let me go,’ said d’Artagnan. Someone hit him hard enough to knock his head sharply back, and he tasted blood.

‘Not back to Paris,’ the Duke agreed. He stared at d’Artagnan thoughtfully. ‘I _could_ offer you a commission in my palace guard. The pay is better and the regiment better organised than your Paris musketeers. I would of course require proof that you harbour no loyalty to your former comrades before I could take such a risk.’

D’Artagnan goggled at him. He hadn’t expected anything like this. He remained silent, hoping that the Duke would betray his intentions further.

‘Now. Are they going to come for you, these musketeers? They hardly seem the sentimental kind, but perhaps they are fond of you.’

D’Artagnan grimaced. He knew that Athos had not meant to leave him behind, and that the three of them had extended a remarkable degree of friendship and trust to him in their fairly short acquaintance. Still, knowing that the Duke was determined to kill at least Aramis, probably Athos and Porthos too, would the three known as ‘Inseparable’ risk everything to save their protégé? From what he knew of them, he guessed that they would. But it was not quite enough to silence the nagging doubts. Outwardly, he tried to keep his face as impassive as possible.

‘How should I know?’ he said. The Duke gave a muffled order and somebody punched him hard in the belly. He automatically tried to double himself up, wrapping his body around the pain, but found himself immediately dragged upright.

The Duke walked away from him, talking over his shoulder. ‘I’ve changed my mind, this idiot’s no use to me. Kill him.’

‘Your grace, wait!’ One of his men clattered down the stairs into the cellar. ‘I delivered your message. They will be here by noon.’

D’Artagnan shuddered, still giddy with the pain of his aggravated bruises. He wasn’t sure whether to consider this good news or not. For his part, the Duke smiled wolfishly and stalked out of the cellar. 

-/-

The farmhouse stood some way back from the road. It was a crumbling old building, built on two storeys in more prosperous times but in dire need of repair. There was only one door at the front of the building, but since it had been a working farm, the windows were wide – shutters hanging off their hinges in several places - and both kitchen and workroom had back doors which opened out onto the yard. The musketeers circled it at a safe distance, taking note of the sightlines which would allow marksmen at the upstairs windows to pick off anyone approaching. Beside the kitchen door was the entrance to a cellar, an angled door leading to a flight of steps down into darkness.

‘He’ll be in the cellar,’ said Athos. ‘It’s the only secure place to hold a prisoner.’

‘Devil of a place to get him out of,’ Porthos commented. Aramis was silent. His lips were pressed tightly together to keep his pain and exhaustion under control.

‘There’s no cover on the approach anyway,’ said Athos. ‘We stick to the original plan.’

He pulled out the scrap of embroidered fabric he had cut from the disguised Savoyard soldier’s uniform after the first attack in the forest. He impaled it on his main gauche and held it aloft before taking a deep breath and stepping out of the undergrowth.

Aramis and Porthos flanked him automatically, the improvised white flag fluttering grimly ahead of them. Athos watched the upper windows, noting the eyes following them up there.

It was Dupiègne who opened the door, wearing the same smug smile he had been sporting the previous night. He cast a critical eye over the three of them and ushered them through to a poorly lit parlour. Two guards were flanking each door, but they made no move to attack. Not yet.

Dupiègne smiled obsequiously at Athos. ‘I must ask you to surrender your weapons, gentlemen.’

‘Not until we’ve seen d’Artagnan,’ Athos said levelly. Three against five would not be bad odds, were Aramis not wounded and d’Artagnan not held prisoner somewhere in the building, he thought.

‘But of course. My employer is with him now. If you’ll excuse me.’

Dupiègne left the room, repeating his officious little bow. The musketeers drew closer together, facing outwards toward the guards in the doorways, each with his hand on his sword hilt. They heard the cellar doors slam open, and muffled voices. Moments later, the Duke of Savoy himself entered the room through the back door, followed by a guard who was very deliberately wiping blood off his knuckles. He heard Porthos growl at the sight.

Aramis was closest, and Athos stepped immediately to stand beside him.

The Duke surveyed the three of them with a triumphant gleam in his eye. ‘You were fools to come,’ he said bluntly.

‘We’d like to see d’Artagnan,’ Athos reiterated. Dupiègne was loitering in the doorway looking like he was enjoying himself immensely. He looked back to the Duke and sighed. ‘Let’s not play games. You have violated the treaty between France and Savoy by attacking the King’s men on French soil. The safety of your dukedom relies on our silence.’

‘So you came here to die,’ the Duke snarled, raising a hand to give an order.

‘But naturally we first took steps to ensure that if you killed us before releasing d’Artagnan, the proof of your treachery would reach Paris anyway,’ Athos said. He pulled the scrap of cloth from his dagger and threw it at the Duke’s chest. ‘Unfortunately, your “bandits” were fool enough to wear your livery under their disguises.’

‘This proves nothing,’ the Duke snarled.

‘Maybe not. But this alongside the disappearance of the four best musketeers in the regiment looks a bit fishy,’ Porthos said, his voice deceptively amicable.

There was a brief silence; the Duke’s expression gave nothing away. ‘What do you propose?’he said at last.

‘Release d’Artagnan,’ said Athos. ‘And we will prevent the letters from reaching the King.’

‘And the three of you?’

‘We are very discreet,’ Athos said, with a shrug. ‘And not enthusiastic at the prospect of war with Savoy.’

The Duke prowled closer. He stood inches from Athos. ‘You’re bluffing. You’ve had one night, hiding in a ditch with no horses and no allies for miles. There are no letters.’

Athos tilted his head back slightly and met his gaze, saying nothing.

The Duke stepped back, and for a moment Athos thought the plan might work, but quick as a striking snake he grabbed Aramis by the neck. ‘All this,’ he hissed, ‘because one man didn’t die _five years ago_ when he should have done.’

Aramis struggled violently, one hand going to the Duke’s wrist as the other fumbled to pull his own dagger. The Duke pushed on his chest, twisted, and slammed Aramis against the wall. Aramis’ mouth opened in a scream he apparently hadn’t the breath to give voice to, and in his shock the dagger dropped from his boneless fingers.

Porthos drew his sword and set it to the back of Savoy’s neck. Athos spun to threaten all the guards with his own drawn sword.

‘Bluffing again,’ said the Duke. ‘You can’t kill me. I am the Duke of Savoy.’

‘Try me,’ said Porthos.

‘Dupiègne!’ Athos ordered. ‘Fetch d’Artagnan, or the Duke dies.’

Dupiègne hesitated. Behind Porthos, one of the Savoyard guards made a move to break the stalemate. Before he’d even drawn his sword, Athos had hurled his main gauche past Porthos’ head and straight into the man’s chest.

‘Dupiègne!’ he repeated.

‘Do not move!’ the Duke roared. As the Duke turned to glance at his lieutenant, Aramis slammed his head forwards and one knee mercilessly upward. The Duke bellowed in pain and indignation, and Porthos landed a heavy kick to his side; he dropped to the ground, groaning. Aramis drew his sword and held it to his throat, compelling him to stay there.

‘If you kill him, you’ll never get out of here alive,’ Dupiègne said, sounding uncertain for the first time.

‘ _Try me_ ,’ said Porthos again.

‘Wait!’

Everyone except Aramis looked up to see the Duchess sweep into the room. ‘Please, wait,’ she repeated. Athos bowed his head politely, and Dupiègne pulled his hat off and pressed it to his chest.

‘My lady!’ he breathed.

 ‘Gentlemen, please spare my husband,’ the Duchess said, focusing her gaze intently on Athos. Clearly, she had received the letter he left for her at the inn. Her eyes were granite-hard, but her voice played the part of the devoted wife beautifully. ‘We must, at all costs, protect the peace between France and Savoy,’ she continued, her eyes boring into Athos’.

‘My lady,’ Athos said courteously, ‘if I and my men are allowed to leave here unmolested, I will gladly forego any vengeance on your husband.’

He wasn’t certain Porthos and Aramis would be so willing to relinquish that vengeance, but he trusted them to follow his lead.

The Duchess nodded stiffly. ‘I will have the guardsmen withdrawn from the house. Once you are satisfied, you will release Victor and leave this place. We will continue our journey home to Savoy. None of us will speak of these events again.’ She held Athos’ gaze until he nodded his acquiescence.

‘There is one more thing. Another of my men is being held against his will in the cellar of this building.’

‘I will see that he is released,’ she said. She turned to her husband’s men, still hovering threateningly in the doorways. ‘Put down your weapons,’ she demanded. They glanced uncertainly at the Duke, but he was apparently still insensible after his head’s forcible collision with the stone floor. Reluctantly, they complied. The Duchess nodded. ‘You,’ she said, pointing at the man with the bloody knuckles, ‘go upstairs and tell all the men that they are to withdraw from the house and wait for me by the carriage.’ He hesitated, but her cold stare sent him on his way. The Duchess nodded again at Athos and swept from the room, chivvying the remaining soldiers out in front of her.

Aramis was trembling, staring fixedly down at the Duke. Athos looked at his back and fleetingly wondered if being slammed into the wall had started the bleeding again underneath the leather. Athos looked back at Dupiègne. ‘Fetch d’Artagnan,’ he demanded.

Dupiègne met his gaze for a few more seconds, then swallowed hard and fled the room, leaving the three musketeers alone with the fallen Duke.

 ‘I remembered you, you know,’ said a hoarse voice. Athos realised it was the Duke who had spoken, apparently recovering from the street-fighting tactics Aramis and Porthos had turned on him. He was staring up at Aramis down the length of the sword, and seemed entirely unconcerned that he was flat on his back.

‘I respect a good soldier. I should have made sure you were dead, cut your throat like the others. But you fought so hard. It brought out the sentimentalist in me.’ His voice now was harsh and focused where it had been blunt and arrogant before. It was the voice of a defeated man trying to inflict as much pain as possible in a last effort to wound his enemy. Athos watched Aramis’ eyes, dark and furious in his pale face. He wanted to intervene, but it would be doing Aramis a disservice.

‘I was wrong. You deserved to die in those woods – young and fierce and talented. I should have seen that you’d be broken by being left alive amongst the bodies. The musketeers could have been a great regiment. But you were broken by grief from that day on. All of you were. Fit for nothing but debauchery and clinging to the king’s coat-tails. You were just... the _mascot_ for the failure of the regiment. I’ve often wondered how it must feel...’

Porthos seemed to be brewing a storm of fury, looking at the Duke with an expression Athos hadn’t seen since he’d confronted Bonnaire over the slave ships. Athos looked back to Aramis. He was so pale – perhaps with fury, or perhaps because blood was pouring down his back underneath Athos’ doublet.

Aramis leaned forwards, and for a horrible moment Athos thought he would pass out, or kill the Duke, or both. But he crouched, putting the sword aside to bend closer to his enemy’s face.

‘How do you justify it to yourself? What did you _do_ to atone for all those dead men in the snow?’ the Duke taunted, glee leaching into his voice now that he was certain it was having an effect.

‘I _survived_ ,’ Aramis said, so quiet it was barely audible. And he knocked out the Duke of Savoy with a neat punch to the jaw.

Athos swallowed an objection. Aramis had deserved to do that, undiplomatic as it may have been.

Immediately afterwards he started to lose his balance, and Porthos stepped forward to catch him by the shoulder and guide him back to sit on the floor. Trusting them to take care of things, Athos stepped outside in time to see d’Artagnan emerge from the cellar holding Dupiègne by the collar.

‘Athos!’ he cried happily. ‘Are you... wearing Aramis’ doublet?’

Athos sighed in fond exasperation.


	5. Chapter 5

They sent Dupiègne out to the carriage carrying the Duke on his shoulder, staggering under the bulky man’s weight. The four of them watched from the front of the farmhouse. Porthos cheered when Dupiègne stumbled and pitched them both into a ditch. Several of the guardsmen hurried over to help, depriving the musketeers of further entertainment.

Otherwise, it was a bittersweet victory. The Duke of Savoy would recover fully from his bruises in a few days and go back to running his tactically important principality. The musketeers could have no satisfaction for their grievances without risking diplomatic crisis, or risking the exposure of the king’s sister as a double agent.

Athos’ spirits lifted considerably when he found Belle and Roger in the farmhouse’s stables, chewing contentedly. Their saddlebags had been searched, but to his relief Aramis’ medical kit was in there. He pulled it out. The bottle he’d been carrying had been pilfered from the pack attached to Roger’s saddle, but a search of the outbuildings yielded half a crate of cloudy wine, and he snagged it before heading back to the farmhouse.

He found the others in the kitchen; Porthos kindling a fire in the hearth and d’Artagnan and Aramis sitting at either side the rough wooden table. Aramis was examining the damage to d’Artagnan’s wrists, sitting with both forearms braced on the table.

Aramis smiled wearily at Athos as he entered. ‘We’re going to be sending d’Artagnan home in a state again. At this rate, I will have to go into hiding to avoid Madame Bonacieux’s wrath.’

D’Artagnan preened indignantly. ‘Somebody get Aramis a mirror. I’m pretty sure he looks worse than I do.’

Porthos and Athos exchanged glances. ‘It is not a competition,’ said Athos, putting the little package of medical supplies down on the table at Aramis’ elbow. He dumped the wine on the bench, carefully ignoring the way his friend’s fingers shook as he unwrapped the package. Tremors aside, Aramis’ manner turned efficient and professional.

‘I don’t think these need wrapping, d’Artagnan, but there’s a salve in here that might soothe them,’ Aramis said quietly. D’Artagnan looked up at Athos in surprise as Aramis tended his wrists, and Athos shook his head at him.

He wandered over to inspect the fire Porthos had built, and helped him heat water and mix it with the sour wine. Athos drank his own glass neat, watching Aramis work. D’Artagnan was bruised from head to foot, his lip was split and bleeding and a spectacular black eye was beginning to blossom.

At length, Aramis seemed satisfied that he had done all he could; he braced his hands on the table and made to get to his feet. Athos and Porthos were across the room in a second as his knees buckled. He relaxed against them, and suddenly the faint tremor in his fingers turned into harsh shivering that ran down his whole body.

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, crumpling back into the seat. ‘I’m sorry –‘

‘Hush,’ said Athos. He held the warm, watered-down wine to his friend’s lips while Porthos helped him out of Athos’ jacket.

The wound had not actually bled much more, but they stripped the bandages from it anyway. D’Artagnan gaped at them from across the table. ‘Why the hell did you let him tend to my wounds first?’ he hissed at Athos, guilt making his voice rough as he stared at Aramis’ injured back.

‘It’s what he does,’ Athos shrugged, since Aramis was still too lucid to tolerate any fuller explanation.

‘Should we stitch this, Aramis?’ said Porthos, bending close to his friend’s ear.

‘Don’t know,’ he mumbled. ‘I can’t see it.’

Athos moved around him to take a look, leaving one hand on Aramis’ shoulder. He described what he could see to Aramis with as much meticulous clinical detail as he could while Porthos soaked a cloth with more of the warm wine. After some consultation they agreed that Athos would stitch the deepest part of the wound. Aramis folded his arms on the table and rested his head on them, muttering the odd terse instruction as Athos sterilised the needle and threaded it and Porthos wiped the blood from his back.

‘What can I do?’ said d’Artagnan, still watching anxiously.

‘Rest,’ Aramis said sharply, aiming a weak glare at him.

‘Distract him,’ Athos mouthed at him.

Uncertainly at first, d’Artagnan chatted aimlessly at them while they worked. He told them about a time he’d come through these parts with his father, travelling between Gascony and the northern trading cities with goods from the farm. He felt exhaustion wrap around him as he spoke, and found his mind drifting back, despite himself, to the events of the last day.

‘He offered me a commission in his palace guard,’ he heard himself say hoarsely. All three musketeers looked up at him in surprise. Athos had finished stitching and was winding a bandage around Aramis’ body, but his hands stilled at the raw note in d’Artagnan’s voice.

‘Who? Savoy?’ he said quietly.

‘Yeah.’ D’Artagnan huffed a strained laugh. ‘He said it was better organised and better paid than the musketeers.’

Porthos smiled crookedly. ‘He would say that.’

‘Very low opinion of the musketeers, that man,’ Aramis said softly. ‘There’s no accounting for taste.’

Athos exchanged a glance with Porthos over his head and looked down to examine the sliver of Aramis’ face he could see through his disordered hair. He was smiling at d’Artagnan, and he looked exhausted but not haunted.

‘He’s a fool,’ Porthos said softly. ‘He doesn’t know what it means to be a musketeer.’

-/-

With two of their number injured, Athos was reluctant to travel immediately, but none of them wanted to linger in Montluçon, so they began the long, painful trek home the next day.

Despite the slow pace Athos set on the way home, they were only two days later than expected when they finally limped into the garrison. Treville took one look at them and sent Aramis and d’Artagnan straight to bed; Porthos followed them, watching hawkishly to see that neither man stumbled. Treville turned to Athos and summoned him upstairs with a glare that brooked no argument.

‘What happened?’

Athos shifted from foot to foot. They had discussed it at length on the way back, and agreed that since nothing could be done and it would only cause him guilt and concern, there was no point in telling Treville. Athos couldn’t help thinking that this agreement was easy for the others to advocate, since they were not the ones who would be required to make the report.

‘We ran into some complications,’ he said. ‘Aramis and d’Artagnan sustained injuries but they will both recover with some rest. The situation has been dealt with.’

Treville pointedly leaned against the closed door and continued to level his stare at Athos.

Athos told him everything.

An hour later, they were seated either side of Treville’s desk with a bottle of brandy open between them. Treville had listened grim-faced to the report, and eventually they both lapsed into silence.

‘Athos – you know there is nothing I can do about Savoy.’

‘We know,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s why we weren’t going to tell you.’

Treville snorted softly in amusement at the idea of his men successfully keeping this from him.

‘Of course,’ he added, ‘the Cardinal would have been thrilled if you’d killed him.’

-/-

Aramis’ wound was not particularly painful any more, but the days of riding had left him completely drained. Porthos made him eat and drink something with all the persistence of a mother hen, and then packed him off to his quarters, following a pace behind him on the stairs in case he lost his footing. He fell asleep almost immediately.

He woke to a quiet knock on the door. He blinked furiously to wake himself up, propping himself on one elbow before calling ‘Come in.’

 It was the Captain. He jolted upright, feeling a twinge as the movement pulled at his healing back. ‘My apologies, Captain, I had expected Athos or Porthos.’

‘They’re both still sleeping, I believe,’ said Treville, waving for Aramis to lie back down. ‘I came to apologise to you, in fact. You should never have been assigned that mission.’

Aramis realised straight away that Athos had cracked, and he flushed in embarrassment. ‘It’s alright, Captain. You couldn’t have known,’ he said, avoiding eye contact.

‘I should have,’ said Treville.

Aramis offered a weary smile. ‘We are all alive. There’s no serious harm done.’

Treville nodded. ‘You know, of course, that there’s nothing I can do. I can’t even promise that you won’t have to protect the bastard again. His wife is the king’s sister. I suspect they will avoid Paris for some time after this, but not forever.’

Aramis nodded soberly. ‘I know that, Captain. If need be, I will do my duty,’ he said, as formally as he could manage while reclining in bed.

Treville met his eyes seriously. ‘I know you will. You are a credit to the regiment, Aramis. You always were.’

Aramis blinked in surprise and then nodded gratefully.

The captain turned to go, vowing to himself as he left the room that he would do his own duty and protect his musketeers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
